The Greatest Catch of All Time
by Cellar Door 26
Summary: Because under all the layers of age and dress, she was still the same. That little girl who took her first kiss from Jarod and in return gave him her heart.


**Title:** The Greatest Catch of all Time  
**Disclaimer:** The Pretender belongs to me like there's a third Pretender movie. Make me eat my words Pretender, make me eat my words!  
**Warning**: Character death?  
**Prompt:** Someone reviewed my other fanfic in this fandom, claiming my other story wasn't very romantic, so I decided to write a romantic one. Ha?  
**Summary:** _Because under all the layers of age and dress, she was still the same. That little girl who took her first kiss from Jarod and in return gave him her heart.  
_**Note from the Author:** Miss Parker's first name may or may not be Melanie, I'm not gonna reveal the truth, but it is used in this story, so forewarned. The tenses change in this story, and I apologize if it throws you. Review if you're feeling charitable, if not then don't feel bad, you're just like any other American out there (including me).

"Dead."

"Deaddeaddeaddeaddeaddeaddead,"Ms. Parker thinks if she says it enough times, it might stop hurting.

She might be able to swallow past that lump in her throat. She might be able to look at her father. She might be able to look past that_ look_ Sydney keeps on giving her. She might be able to look at her phone in the middle of the night and not hope beyond hope that it'll ring. That it'll be him.

Because Ms. Parker does not hope. She. does. not. hope.

And she also doesn't cry herself to sleep at night.

But this is what Jarod's death has done to her.

Broken and ruined her worse then anything The Centre could do.

But of course, that wasn't acknowledged. Not even his death, really. A formal investigation was being launched and in the meantime, in her-little-slice-of-hell limbo, Ms. Parker was being forced to work, to continue her job of tracking down Jarod, to walk around and chat with the murderer that wouldn't reveal himself, and she was fine with that.

Really.

But if she really thought about it, if she really chose to acknowledge all the feelings she had whirling around _anger, betrayal, hurt, love_ she'd realize that the painful hole in her chest didn't come from the loss of purpose in her life, it wasn't because the chase was over, it wasn't even because of who the killer was, but who was killed.

Because under all the layers of age and dress, she was still the same. That little girl who took her first kiss from Jarod and in return gave him her heart.

And if he was gone, If he was dead, then her heart's gone too. And how can anyone, including the ice princess, live without their heart?

Oh sure, Ms. Parker lives, _she pretends _to at least.

Wakes up every morning to realize her dreams don't exist, flawlessly presents herself to The Centre, refusing to let them see how broken she is right now, the only nick in this plan is her refusal to speak with her father, to acknowledge his existence, to hear his reasons and forgive.

She can only forget.

And that's after work, in a bar somewhere, drinking herself into oblivion. Sometimes letting herself get lost in the sin of skin (with someone dark haired, a lean build, that irrefutable gleam in his eye) or taking a cab ride home.

But she does so hate to be alone with her thoughts right now.

Two weeks pass and Ms. Parker begins to believe she's a better Pretender than Jarod is. Than he was.

Oh god, he's dead.

And the cycle repeats itself.

Except when her father comes in and demands DEMANDS to know what the hell is wrong with her. Sullying the great Parker name with such foolish behavior and fouling her mother's image.

But Ms. Parker just laughs. The first time since that gun discharges and Parker laughs harder than she has in a long long time. Laughs as she leaves him standing there, laughs as she leaves the building, laughs in the car that steadily turns to tears and by the time she reaches home a bottle is on the mind.

The clock screams 10:30 at her- too early to drink, to behave like this, is this what Jarod really wants?- but then the cold bottle feels so good in her hand and so she walks into the bathroom, lays in the bathtub with the lights out, drinking tequila and just- not thinking. She brought the cordless phone in _just in case_and stares at it over the rim of the tub, letting the tears fall.

She falls asleep before the bottle is empty, and unfortunately doesn't drink herself to death.

There's always next time.

Except this time, Parker wakes up in her cotton pajamas in her bed.

For one moment she's breathless, eyes closed and body silent, could Jarod be here? Could he possible be alive? _Oh please, oh please_. A silent mantra, she doesn't notice the tears slip out, just tightly privately wishes feverently that **he** be here, annoying and brilliant and alive and

"Oh good, you're up." Sydney. Her eyes open and she wipes at them discreetly, turning onto her back and them looking at the man who raised Jarod.

"What are you doing here?" A sigh. Long and full of sadness, as if he knew exactly what she were thinking earlier and pities her lack of social conduct. Her inability to ask for help or talk.

"I've come because we've got a Jarod spotting in Eugene, Oregon."

"Jarod's dead."

"Is he?" _Is he? _Ms. Parker wanted to shoot Sydney on the spot for that sound, for those words, full of quiet hope and desperation, as if he felt just as much pain as she did. "No body was found."

"My father killed him. He's dead." A great pause,

"Be that as it may, we've still got our orders." Turning to leave, Sydney spoke hesitantly, "You're going to want to finish that drink on your night stand before standing." And the door was shut.

Ms. Parker made her mornings very meticulous after the _incident_, she drank whatever special hangover drink, went into the bathroom, showered, brushed her teeth, got dressed, made up her hair, put on make-up and pretended to eat.

The truth was, since Jarod's death five weeks, two days, seven hours and twenty-six minutes ago, Ms. Parker hadn't had a decent full meal.

Not that Broots and Sydney hadn't tried, she just couldn't stomach it.

And in this plane, flying to whatever backward town it was, Ms. Parker wished she hadn't eaten that half a piece of toast and egg under Sydney's watchful gaze.

They landed in a storm of biblical proportions and Ms. Parker found herself drenched in the ten-foot walk from building to car. Sitting in a car without driving made Ms. Parker feel helpless and annoyed so she insisted they go check out the place Jarod had been spotted instead of checking into their hotel.

They split up (less because it had a better tactical advantage and more because of Parker's mood) and with squeaky shoes they went into search of Jarod.

No one mentioned the tactical disadvantage of being heard ten feet away to Ms. Parker.

Trying to squeeze water out of her shirt, Parker made her way up some ominous looking steps. Squeaking as if she were a man of three hundred pounds, Ms. Parker didn't discern any difference from step number seventeen to step number eighteen, and was therefore greatly surprised when she broke through and with a great amount of luck landed somewhere twelve feet done instead of forty. Unluckily for her through, she landed awkwardly on her ankle, and the pain made her eyes squelch up, eliciting a rather loud bellow of aguish. She also cursed a great amount to get it out of her system.

Popping her eyes back open, and trying not to think about the pain, Ms. Parker waited for her eyes to adjust to this room, and quickly learned that they did not need to, as there was a lamp on atop a dresser. A dresser next to a bed, in which a figure lay.

Piled underneath the covers, Ms. Parker could only just make out the face. A face that looked distinctly brown haired. And had a mole underneath the eye. Which were closed, and looked as if they had been for some time.

If Parker was in a better state of mind, she would have wondered why the eyes were still closed after she'd just fallen through his roof (loudly), yelled (very loudly) and then cursed (so that the heavens could hear and take pity).

But she wasn't, so, forgetting entirely about her ankle, Parker stood up as per normal, and without thought, she fell down. A scream followed.

The man didn't even move.

It was then that Ms. Parker had real, unimaginable fear seize her gut. Refusing to break down, Parker made the agonizing crawl to the bed that lay three feet from her.

Reaching it at last, Ms Parker pulled herself to the side of the bed, and gazed at the man who looked so like Jarod.

With shaking fingers (from the cold and pain, not her emotions, never those) Parker brushed some hair off his face, letting her fingers trail down to his neck, hunting for a pulse.

She found one.

But was this man Jarod? If only she could look at his eyes. She those glorious globes of light that so filled her darkness.

What was keeping him in this sleep?

Ms. Parker thought suddenly of sleeping beauty and for the second time since Jarod's possible** not**death, she laughed. Resting her head on his chest (or could possibly be, the blankets were so full), Ms. Parker allowed herself a moment to rest, to imagine, to hope and dream that this man was her Jarod. Her catch, her love of her life.

"Well hello to you too, Ms. Parker." Speaking seemed suddenly so irreverent right now. Coming up with some barbed reply couldn't matter in the least, just turning her head, staring into the eyes of the man she had been chasing for so long.. It was him! It was the man named Jarod, the boy she'd been mourning for too long.

And the first thing she noticed about this man was confusion.

No doubt this was on her part, but Ms. Parker couldn't make herself act tough and triumphant. Act like she was going to take him into The Centre and wave her gun around for good measure.

She was simply too happy to act so sad.

"Oh god, you're alive." And then Ms. Parker did a terrible thing, she hugged the man that lay before her. Squeezed him until not an ounce of breath was between him. Until she felt his heart beat at the same pace as hers, until the decades melted and he hugged her back.

Questions beat against her head, but she ignored them, concentrating on the rhythm of his breath, the beat of his heart, the strength he used to hug her back, as if the answer to man laid in this one.

It was he who broke the silence first.

"Is that a gun in your pocket or are you happy to see me?" The joke so old, so boring, so needed, oh how Parker laughed.

"Both." Was her answer, and she knelt back, looking at the man she loved, smoothing that crease in his forehead by such a strange turn of events occurring

It seemed now that he was back in her life she couldn't seem to stop touching him.

But then again, he didn't seem to mind that much.

As Ms. Parker angled herself closer to his frame, she accidently jostled her ankle, and her face lit up in pain as she grabbed at her ankle.

"What's wrong? Are you all right?" Already sitting up, Jarod peered down in the paradox that was Ms. Parker.

"Yeah, it's just this stupid ankle. I think I sprained it falling down here."

"You fell in here?" Helping her onto the bed, Jarod very carefully removed her shoe, and with the care of a surgeon, he ascertained the damage.

"Damn stair broke. Ow." Not meaning to exclaim hurt, Ms. Parker hid her face from Jarod's view.

"Sorry. It looks sprained. Hold on, I'll grab my first aid kit." Ms. Parker's stomach clenched in fear, and she wondered how far away he'd go to get this kit.

Thankfully, it was in his dresser.

Opening it her eye view, Ms. Parker noticed the amount of sleeping drugs in that case. Suddenly the reason he hadn't awaken by all her noise made sense. But why take it if The Centre was after him? Answering her unasked question,

"I was fairly sure The Centre thought I was dead. And the damage your father gave me needed full nights of rest, without the worry of the rain awakening me." The way he said 'your father', as if it were a swear word, it scared her.

Or would have, if she felt particularly attached to her father. But at this moment in time, Ms. Parker felt no more than a small twinge at feelings used to be.

It seemed that Jarod's **not**death had just enough force to pull the wool out of her eyes and she saw him for what he truly was, a manipulative bastard.

Jarod's careful fingers removing her wet sock and applying the gauze over the injured appendage, it made her thoughts return to the present, and Ms. Parker was suddenly very aware of how warm it was next to him, on this bed, in this small room.

How they were both very alive.

"There. You're going to need to be checked out by a real doctor, just in case, but I'm fairly sure you're going to be fine."

"Thank you." _For saving my life_, Ms. Parker wanted to say, _for forgiving me no matter what I do_,_ for taking care of me even when I don't let you, for protecting my heart, for never pushing me too hard, for never stopping and giving up. For never letting The Centre win you. Because when you go, I go too. _

But it seemed he understood, and then they were kissing. Not the chaste kiss of their yester years, but it was sweet, and had passion. Boy did it have passion. Ms. Parker felt her nerve endings tingle, felt her heart open up and join his (or was that her mouth?), felt her being join with his and for one perfect moment Ms. Parker felt like Melanie, felt like that happy little girl kissing her best friend who was weird but always there for, who felt what she felt, and was just as happy, kissing back just as much, just as not alone.

"Is this where the sweepers come out and take me back?" It was the first thing out of his mouth when they broke apart, foreheads resting together, arms circled, breathing unison.

And then Ms. Parker remembered what she was here for. That she needed to take him back with her. To be stuck in the basement of The Centre and do bad things for bad men and ruin all the hard work he'd done.

"No." The word surprised herself as much as him, but Ms. Parker decided to stick by it.

"No?"

"You're dead, remember? All Sidney, Brutes and I found here was a ghost. An old pretend someone had forgotten about until now. We were unsuccessful. My father killed you, after all."

"Ms. Parker-" Broots voice from far away,

"I think I'll continue my work at The Centre. Well, continue my mother's work."

"Ms. Parker-" It was now Sydney, Ms. Parker didn't dare turn her eyes away from Jarod's.

"Ghosts can visit though, can't they? For Sidney I mean. He's been a mess without you. And Broots too, he's been awful bored."

"Ms. Parker-" Closer and closer, they were almost at the steps.

"Angelo has been a bit downtrodden."

"Why are you doing this?" Incredulous, excited, awed, in shock

"Because I am my mother's daughter." Such a simple answer for such a complicated question.

A kiss was shared, full of passion and far too short.

"Miss Parker, are you down there?" Brutes voice, a flashlight shining down the hole on their left, three feet away.

"Oh course I am. Now how the hell are you going to get me out?" Shouted to reach their ears, Ms. Parker ignored their answer to whisper at Jarod a quick few words, "Get the hell out." His smile an almost earned reward, he kissed her lightly on the forehead and then spirited out of a hidden door.

Two hours later, after being rescued by firefighters and warmed at the hotel, Sydney asked Miss. Parker who had bandaged her ankle.

"A ghost." She told him.

"Ms. Parker, ghost's don't exist." His voice taking on the edge of a physician who'd been around a more than few crazies,

"Oh, he must have been pretending then." And that look, the one Sydney had been sporting since this ordeal had begun vanished in an instant, a smile replacing it.

The End.


End file.
